


If You Wish For Peace (Prepare For War)

by honey_wheeler



Category: The White Princess (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-19 00:29:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11886102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: “Shouldn’t you have a physician to attend that?” she asks when she finds her voice.Henry shrugs, though Lizzie can see the motion pains him slightly. “It’s little more than a scratch. You can attend to it if you wish.” It’s a curious thing to say; Lizzie’s no more adept at patching wounds than she would be at riding into battle. It occurs to her that he thinks she’ll refuse; that he’s challenging her in a way that’s as wistful as it is confrontational. It’s the wistfulness that propels her to his side against her better judgment.





	If You Wish For Peace (Prepare For War)

**Author's Note:**

> Missing scene set somewhere between marriage and heir. For my lovely historical OTP friends on the anniversary of the Battle of Bosworth.

At first all she sees is the blood. If she’s dispassionate, she can admit there’s not much, only a twisting scarlet ribbon of it just below his collarbone. It’s only that she’s not feeling especially dispassionate at the moment. The merest mention of Henry being wounded in training and she’d bolted from her bath and flown down the hall with wings on her heels in a damp dressing gown, never mind that they’d fought like wary cats only hours ago. Hardly behavior fit for a queen. It occurs to her that it’s rather appropriate for a devoted and loving wife, though. That’s something to pack away and examine later.

“Elizabeth.” Henry isn’t feeling especially dispassionate either, if the way his voice wraps around her name is any measure. His eyes take in her dishabille, from the untidy jumble of her hair atop her head to the feet that she’s only just now realized are still bare. She could be unclothed entirely for the way she feels the heat of his gaze on her.

“Henry,” she breathes. A chorus of murmured _Your Majesties_ greet her and all at once she realizes the presence of his men in the room, surrounding him in a loose circle as he sits on a stool in the middle of the room, shirt unlaced and half off his shoulders. Her mouth rounds into an undignified oh of surprise. If she weren’t still flushed from the heat of her bath, her cheeks would surely be turning pink. She grapples for a way out, but Henry saves her.

“Leave us,” he tells his men. Her heart pitches towards her knees at the graveled sound of his voice but she forces herself to be still.

Lizzie stands where she is, hands folded primly in front of her, as if her feet aren’t leaving wet patches on the floor while his men file past her on their way out. They nod respectfully, or avoid her eyes entirely. It’s surely discomfiting to be confronted with one’s Queen looking like a common doxy. The room falls silent when they’re gone, only the crackling of the fire intruding on the quiet.

“Shouldn’t you have a physician to attend that?” she asks when she finds her voice.

Henry shrugs, though Lizzie can see the motion pains him slightly. “It’s little more than a scratch. You can attend to it if you wish.” It’s a curious thing to say; Lizzie’s no more adept at patching wounds than she would be at riding into battle. It occurs to her that he thinks she’ll refuse; that he’s challenging her in a way that’s as wistful as it is confrontational. It’s the wistfulness that propels her to his side against her better judgment.

“Were you not wearing armor?” Her voice is acid; it’s a habit of hers, falling back on haughty temper when she’s feeling threatened or discomfited. Henry makes a sound that’s half weary, half amused. He never quite reacts to her temper the way she expects.

“Not in training.”

Lizzie pauses to wring out the washcloth one of Henry’s men had left abandoned in a shallow bowl of water. “Mail, then.” Henry echoes her pause with his own as she wipes the damp cloth over his wound so gently that she almost hates herself for it.

“It was an impulse,” he says finally. “I was not dressed for sparring.” It’s on the tip of her tongue to ask what impulse might lead him to fling himself at swords without proper protection, but then she catches the words behind her teeth, remembering their argument earlier. As if hearing the words anyway, he looks up at her, the heat in his eyes leaving her no doubts. Once, when she was where she wasn’t supposed to be and doing what she shouldn’t do, she’d overheard a man say that there was little difference between fighting and fucking. She’d never known what that meant before Henry.

“Perhaps next time you’ll be more prudent,” she says, meaning to sound stern and failing miserably. Henry’s eyes drift lower, moving over the damp brocade covering her body. It had seemed always seemed a perfectly respectable garment before; never has she felt so indecent when fully covered, and she can’t quite decide if she likes it. Now that his eyes aren’t on hers, she finds her gaze drawn to the dark crescents of his eyelashes, as thick as the fox fur lining her favorite cape, the curling mass of hair that covers his chest so close to her fingertips. The last time she’d lain with him, the dutiful wife submitting to husband and country, she’d given in to temptation, twining her fingers in that hair on his chest and tugging. It had felt too good for something that struck her as akin to betrayal. Once she’d though she would love Richard for the rest of her days. Now he seems farther away with every day that passes.

“Careful, Lizzie,” Henry says, smiling lazily. He lifts his hand and sets it at her hip, his palm burning through the cloth of her dressing gown like a brand. “Someone might get the impression you care for me.”

A hundred sharp retorts die on her lips as he slides his hand up over waist and ribs until his knuckles brush the underside of her breast through her gown. She closes her eyes, hearing the cloth in her hand hit the floor with a wet sound as she loses her grip. Her hand spreads across his chest instead, the hair coarse and curling around her fingers, damp from the cloth and from the blood that still wells from his wound. It’s shockingly intimate for such a mundane touch, and Lizzie’s eyes fly open, fear of something huge and unknown flooding through her body like cold water.

Henry’s brows beetle into a frown. “Lizzie…” 

She steps back, away from his hand as it searches for the seam of her dressing gown, from his eyes that might look into her soul if she’s not careful. His hand falls. A brief flash of disappointment shows on his face before it fades into weary resignation.

“I think you’ll survive,” she says, a tremor in her voice. Her feet take another compulsive step back, then another.

“Lizzie,” he tries again, but she shakes her head, forcing a false smile as she inclines her head and scrabbles behind her for the door handle.

His sigh echoes in her ears as she flees down the hall to her rooms. She’s never thought herself a coward – quite the contrary – but that’s how she feels as she bolts her door behind her and presses a hand to her forehead.

It’s only that she can’t afford to fall in love.


End file.
